Elementary: A Winter Tale
by xxyzz
Summary: <html><head></head>A shocking conversation happens between Joan Watson and Kitty Winter. Kitty at first seems unreasonably angry with a person she's only recently met, but Joan learns that Kitty is aware of far more than she ever knew. Kitty's introduction to Sherlock goes back further than either Joan or Sherlock realizes and unbeknownst to him he created this new partner.</html>


Some people paid some very nice compliments about my single-scene story and they thought I might follow it up. I decided to give it a try.

However, the more I wrote, the more I realized the person talking to me is Kitty Winter. Her introduction is the story that spoke me and I'm hope she is worthy of Joan, Sherlock, Elementary and original canon—from which I borrowed heavily.

The original scene is used to begin this story. The goal was not to remove or rearrange a single word from the original scene and see if I could make it work. Hopefully I've succeeded.

Apologies for any glaring errors. I tried to keep it realistic.

Of course I own nothing, no money, just a creative outlet.

Fair warning: This isn't going to be a Joanlock ending, but I do think it provides possible openings in the future.

Hope you'll enjoy the story.

Sherlock stepped away from Kitty to find a spot to mediate on the conflicting information they had just received. He couldn't speak about it now—she knew that, but she knew she could review the information that they already had. He'd come up with something—he always did—and she wanted to be ready.

She was thinking over the problem too and hadn't paid attention that the conference room was occupied by Joan until she had walked into the room. She had on glasses, reviewing photos of the crime scene with a magnifying glass. Kitty sat on the other side, far end, and picked up a folder and began to read without a hello.

Joan pretended that Kitty's dislike of her didn't affect her, but it did radiate, warming up the air in the room, making everything feel close and uncomfortable.

Joan was also increasingly aware of how Sherlock and Kitty worked together. Whereas she and Sherlock often would go back and forth on various pieces of information, she seeing herself as a counterbalance to his thoughts and ideas, Kitty and Sherlock were like a wolf pack of two. They moved, thought and behaved like they shared a single mind. Kitty's mind was as quick, in some respects, as Sherlock's was. Sherlock would have only to lock eyes with Kitty and she would seem to understand the import of the look. Often she would write something in her notebook, pull out her phone to take a picture or point to something that corresponded to that look of his. They would share a smile when this happened and then they would say something to Gregson or Bell, tagging off of each other rapidly, filling in the spaces of the other. Just as often they would merely leave with barely an 'adieu' and come back with answers.

Now Joan knew that she was good. Sherlock had taught her well and she had more of the social requirements that were expected which made many on the force actually like her more, but she knew that Sherlock was still the master—and he had learned much in their time together, more aware of his place in a group, and how to behave in it. But still, his powers of deduction had increased since his time with Kitty began. His abilities bordered on the uncanny. She, who knew him so well, was finding herself in awe.

Kitty read something and picked up her phone and began typing away. Verifying some piece of information to be true or filling in a blank no doubt. Then she closed her eyes, Joan despite herself, couldn't help but watch her. Her eyes were darting around beneath her lids. Her head moved slightly this way and that, as she watched whatever the scene she had pictured. Perhaps she was searching, her hands moved a bit and her head dipped.

"The bedroom photo you're looking at is a waste of time," Kitty said abruptly, eyes still closed, "they pretended to have slept there overnight to give themselves an alibi. They rumbled the blankets and the pillows for show, but there are no indentations in the sheets or the pillows. No head marks, no body marks that would obviously be there if they really had slept there and had to leave in the hurry they claimed they had."

Joan knew something was off about the picture and was working it through when Kitty said this. "I figured as much," was all she would say in reply.

"Then why are you still bothering with it?" Kitty demanded.

"Kitty, we're working together on this case, not against each other. This isn't a competition."

Kitty opened her eyes and looked at Joan as though she had said the stupidest thing in the world, "This very much is a competition. I won't have Sherlock made to look a fool because of you."

"What are talking about? Why are you acting like this?"

"It's simple really, because I despise you."

Joan was taken aback, not just by the strong words but the stronger emotions that accompanied them, but she tried to get ahold of herself. "I'm sorry you feel that way. But it's the case that's most important now. Anything that you and Sherlock may feel can be put aside until it's over— perhaps then we can clear the air."

"Do you honestly think that Sherlock speaks to me about you? Apart from the work, he never mentions your name. You hurt him—almost as bad as Irene did. But he'll never admit it. Yes, I know about Irene. I worked hard to get him to open up to me yet he never speaks of you other than to say that you helped him when he needed it most. But no other word will he speak about you. I found him nearly lost—I won't see him in your clutches again, especially after I learned the truth."

Joan felt a fist in her chest when Kitty told her she had hurt him almost as much as Irene. She had felt the betrayed one when he left so abruptly. She thought him a selfish boy, only wanting things his own way. To hear he wouldn't even speak of her made her feel terrible. For some reason Irene's letter-writing campaign came to mind, her attempt to try to remain in Sherlock's life. But then she wondered how much Kitty actually knew about Irene, and just what was this 'truth'?

The question must have played in her face because Kitty gave a scornful laugh, "I was wondering if you'd have the nerve to ask it. Yes, there is a truth, several in fact that you never knew."

"During our time together in MI-6, Sherlock took me to asset "meetings" I'd guess you'd call them. I have certain skills, and, when I was allowed to step away from time to time, I found some very interesting information about Sherlock and Mycroft—and you." Kitty stopped a beat or two to let the words have their impact and then continued, "Yes, you. MI-6 has quite interesting file on you. Joan Watson—always looking for a man. All the while you were with one of the greatest minds that has ever lived. They used that, and your dalliance with Mycroft, to drive the wedge between you and Sherlock."

Joan's eyes went wide. Kitty's expression was contemptuous of it. Joan could hear the words as if spoken aloud, "did you really think they didn't know about it?"

Having landed her first blow, Kitty leaned back in her chair, getting comfortable for her next charge. "Did you know that when Sherlock had to make the choice to go back to London or stay in New York it was actually because Mycroft was following on orders from MI-6 to get Sherlock out of America so they could carry on their operations without worrying about his interference? Mycroft had never even spoken to their father, much less relayed his father's disapproval of Sherlock's living here. When that didn't work Mycroft decided to use your little tryst in London, your never-ending search for "love," to unstable Sherlock. It was felt that without you as his anchor Sherlock could be more easily managed, no matter what the cost to him, and it would have worked too if you hadn't been stupid and gotten yourself caught by Le Milieu."

"Did Sherlock even tell you that he did all the work that was needed to rescued you?" Kitty read Joan's face as clearly as if she had said the word, "No, I doubted he had. Mycroft's file was very detailed about Sherlock's skills in those dark hours. Sherlock battled world banks, governments and assassins to get to you. He nearly tortured a man to get the information he needed to save your life. All Mycroft did was follow him around and then, just as Sherlock was going to call the NSA in to secure your release—Mycroft stun-gunned his own brother and took the information." Kitty looked pass Joan and put her hand over her mouth. Should she tell her the rest? She couldn't help it, anger made her speak, "Sherlock woke up alone, beside himself in fear for you, because in that moment, he didn't know if Mycroft was working on order from Le Milieu, or was keeping the precious information for himself. He couldn't even be bothered to leave a message on Sherlock's phone to spare him pain. Sherlock went to the NSA and begged them for your life—but they wouldn't help him. He was about to plead with Captain Gregson when your phone call finally came. Not even then would Mycroft put his brother out of misery in regard to you."

This couldn't be true, Joan kept repeating to herself. This had to be wrong. "And you, how can you know this?"

Kitty's eyes were still on a point pass Joan. Her voice came out quiet, as though his pain were her own that moment: "Sherlock was debriefed." Then the anger immediately returned and she narrowed her eyes back on her target, "Do you wonder now why Mycroft didn't tell you about getting back into MI-6 to 'save' his brother? You ran to him like a silly school girl—all the while Sherlock was saving his life, in gratitude for MI-6 saving yours. You cried over Mycroft when he—was gone. But you left Sherlock while alive and, as I found out, asking you to stay." Kitty stopped abruptly, stood and gathered her folders, files and photographs. She stuffed them in her bag furiously and slung it on her shoulder, turned to leave, then turned one more time to Joan—who sat quietly trying to absorb the revelations that she had been hit with, one behind another.

"You—you cried over a man that tried to destroy his own brother and kissed you for queen and country—all because he flirted at you and cooked you a meal. Yes, I despise you Joan Watson, because you never deserved Sherlock Holmes, and in my opinion, you never will."

With that Kitty left. She didn't wait to see its affect, she no longer cared. She wanted Joan out of Sherlock's life permanently. If only she could break that thin line they still shared—she would do whatever it took to accomplish it.

Joan still sat there, case forgotten, color drained from her face and cold running through her veins. Kitty stepped three steps beyond the door and Sherlock came around the corner in that moment. He looked to Kitty and she quickened her step to get to him, Joan knew she didn't want Sherlock to see the state that Kitty had left her in, and Sherlock began to speak excitedly about some discovery he had made. He gave Kitty one of his silly grins and turned to follow Kitty as she walked away from Joan's view.

Scales had fallen from Joan's eyes. She was seeing things and experiencing the pain of new discoveries. Questions she had never thought to wonder about—why hadn't she wondered about them? And a new loss, greater than she expected, settled on her. She had never truly known what she had lost with Sherlock until that moment. Whereas she had felt—some justification with her pain before—now all she felt was the pain.

Her phone rang and her boyfriend's face appeared in the caller-ID. She couldn't help it, she sent the call to voicemail. She couldn't trust her voice to be steady. Her eyes welled with water and a tear rolled down her cheek and she whispered aloud:

"Oh Sherlock, what have I done?"

II

Kitty Winter was a woman of many enthusiasms, but the leading one was Sherlock Holmes, and it had been that way for a long time. See—

Many years ago, in the dormitory of a newly co-ed boarding school, a little girl lay on her bed, looking down at the floor. In a few weeks her world had been completely taken from her. Her parents divorced and she was put in a boarding school, to give her a stable life, she was told, 'cause her mum had to go to work and her father moved to Spain to be with his new wife.

She was sad and alone. And as is often the case, sad and lonely little girls have a hard time making friends, which just as often, leaves one open to the bullies of the world. So was the case this time also. Catherine had a cadre of 3 and she did her best to avoid them whenever she could. She had learned the school so well that she would get from one class to another by whatever means necessary to avoid them. Sometimes she barely made it to class on time.

So there she lay, after nearly a semester of oppression, trying to divine a way to escape her contracted world. The summer holiday was coming, soon she would get a break. But mum was working hard to establish herself in the firm that took a chance on her and her father hadn't written back when she sent a letter asking to live with him, so she didn't see how she was going to get out of coming back.

"Scared Kitty, Scared Kitty are you in there?" She heard the evil trio say as they passed her room, laughing as they did. They'd even made her hate her pet name. They called her "Scared Kitty" because she was jumpy and quiet. So quiet they often didn't know when she was around, which is what she wanted. She sat up in the bed and watched the door, but made no sound and soon she realized they had gone on their way. Satisfied she slid off the bed and faced the wall. All her world seemed to be the size of the space between her bed and the wall. All the rest of it belonged to "them." She lay on the floor, with her head on her folded arms but tears wouldn't even come anymore.

As she lay there, she noticed someone had carved something in the wood. It was under the nightstand, just in front of the base board. Not something she would have ever seen before, she moved the nightstand, and saw the words carved into the wood, not very big, but deep, so deep that all the sanding, buffing and staining hadn't made those words go away:

"Sherlock was here – and was better than them all!"

Sherlock? Was that a boy or a girl? Probably a boy since it used to be a boy's school she supposed. She knew, she just knew, the little boy that carved those words was just like her, trying to survive in a horrible place. She wondered what happened to that little boy. She hoped he got free.

She ate supper quickly and disappeared, as usual, to the library. The librarian waved to her and called her over. Mrs. Jenkins had evening hours just before and during exams, though most didn't take advantage of it until absolutely necessary, so most of the room was quiet.

Mrs. Jenkins had been with the school so long that she knew she was looking at a troubled soul. Bullies were the bane of every school and she did what she could to be there for any student who saw her as a refuge in a troubled time.

"Here to study or help me?"

"Help you."

The librarian gave her a stack of books to put in order as they talked. Kitty talked about how her mother wanted her to start taking ballet lessons and Mrs. Jenkins thought it was good idea. Kitty couldn't imagine doing anything that would make her more of a target, but she listened politely as she gave all the reasons why it could be a good idea, including the idea that it could bring her confidence. Succeeding in one area often brought about success in others.

As she said these things, Kitty looked down to the book in her hands. Maybe she could succeed, she thought.

The summer holiday passed and Kitty found herself assigned to the same room she had the year before, and the same roommate, which gave her some peace of mind. Tildy had never shown much interest in her, but at least she didn't bother her either. She arrived in the room, said a short hi, dropped off her things and then went off to meet some friends. Kitty's mum hadn't had time to stay very long but gave her a long hug and a promised to do all she could to improve her working situation so that she could come back home. This summer had been different than before, she'd seen her father only a week that summer in Spain. Her mother worked a lot and she was often on her own. But she had kept busy and actually made a couple of friends. It helped to know there were people her own age that liked her when she came back to the worst place she'd ever known.

The door of the room had been partially open, it moved and Kitty looked up. Marissa, the worse of the cadre was looking in, her friend in all things evil, Dorothy, stood close behind. Emily brought up the rear.

"Oh. I see Scared Kitty is back. I hope you have a good year," Marissa said a knowing and cruel look in her eyes. Dorothy gave a short laugh. "Can we go?" was Emily's dry contribution, "I have to get to the professor's office in 5 minutes or I might lose my spot on the Netherlands trip." The three of them walked away. Kitty went and closed the door. She was hoping to be forgotten by them.

But Marissa was very much ready to continue with her previous year's activities. Kitty had grown out her hair over the summer, kept in a ponytail and wore a side swept fringe instead of wearing it all back all the time. It became her, plus it made it easy for her to get ready. Marissa immediately took aim at it the next day in front of history class.

"I see that Kitty has a tail now," she said, batting at it as walked behind her.

"Could you please just leave me alone?"

Marissa reversed direction and walked by again, batting the tail, "Why should I?"

"Why do you need a reason? Why can't you just be nice?"

What had started out as a private conversation now had everyone's attention, even Emily, who shared this class. Marissa now stopped in front of her. "What if I don't want to?" She replied. It was said quietly, but enough to menace.

"Then I think you're a poor excuse for a human being." Kitty was nervous saying that, but knew she couldn't stop now.

The crowd around 'ooo-ed' and Marissa found herself facing an unexpected coup. She smiled, took Marissa ponytail and laid it on her shoulder. "I was just admiring your hair," her voice was mockingly smooth and she went to step away and just as quickly turned back in what Kitty knew was going to an open-hand blow.

Weeks and weeks of practice took over, it was as if she was watching the events in slow motion and someone else was controlling her body. She met the hand coming at her by grabbing her by the thumb twisting it back and down. Marissa landed in an ungraceful heap on the floor. Kitty bent down to her.

"I just want to be left alone!" With that Kitty went into class.

At first there was silence and then there was uproarious laughter. Kitty was sitting in the room listening to it, too shaken by the events to find it funny. The professor came and dispersed the group into class or wherever they were due. No one spoke about what had started the joke, and several people came and patted Kitty on the shoulder as they sat down.

Kitty hoped that this was the end.

Later that day Kitty was coming down the stairs on one of her circuitous routes from one place to another, she turned the corner and faced Marissa and Dorothy at the bottom of the stairs. She spun around and ran back up the stairs but anger must have given them speed because she was barely to the top of the stairs before they were on top of her preventing her from opening one of the doors to the floor. She threw her books to the floor and put her backs against the wall.

Dorothy came at her first, Kitty blocked the coming blow, swept her leg behind Dorothy's and pushed her solidly in the chest. Dorothy went crashing down. Marissa was already grabbing her hair in both hands. Kitty pushed forward, and Marissa hit the banister hard enough to loosen her grip. With that, Kitty executed the same move on Marissa that she had on Dorothy and she fell on the ascending stairs. Once Kitty saw she was free, she didn't hesitate for a second, she ran into the hall and straight to the Headmaster's office.

The hours after that had been a blur of questions and more questions, phone calls and meetings. At first Marissa and Dorothy tried to claim that Kitty had ambushed them, but the story of what had happened outside of history class had spread far and wide and many students as soon as they heard what happened in the stairwell voluntarily went to the Headmaster's office and told what they saw. Some of them even knew that Kitty went out of her way to avoid her tormenters. Kitty didn't think anyone had noticed or cared. So by the time the parents had come for the meeting the next morning the story had been well enough known that even though the other two had more influential parents, they were the ones worried that they would be expelled. In the end Kitty herself said she did not want them expelled, but just wanted what she had always wanted—to be left in peace.

They all received punishment, fighting was not to be tolerated. After the other girls had been taken aside to receive their discipline Kitty was given hers—a month's detention—working in the library. Kitty looked up in surprise, the headmaster put his finger over his lips, smiled, winked, and then beckoned her to lean in.

"Those two have been a pain in my backside since they got here. They deserved more than they got—but you didn't hear that from me. Take the day off, rest, tomorrow is a new day for you."

Back in her room, after mother had left, she lay on her bed and thought and thought about all that had happened. And then she thought about someone else, she moved the nightstand and looked at Sherlock's defiance marked in wood, a permanent shout that the world would not break him. When she saw those words she knew she wasn't the only one to suffer and that maybe there was something she could do about it.

Wherever he was, Sherlock was her hero.

Soon, as life will do, Kitty's life became filled with many things. Sherlock's name faded out of knowledge except on rare occasions.

She and Tildy became friends. Tildy had suffered at Marissa and Dorothy hands the year before she arrived and admired Kitty facing what she could not. Even Emily came to her and apologized for her role in the bullying she suffered. Marissa was her cousin, and she got drug along and now she felt ashamed. She even admitted she didn't like Marissa very much—eventually they became friends too. Kitty continued to study martial arts and gymnastics (her mother could never talk her into ballet) and soon found by being around Mrs. Jenkins that she loved libraries and that lead her to computers, the ultimate library. Her friends teased her and named her 'ninja nerd' which she did not mind at all. After all, it was the library that brought Sherlock back into her life.

Years had passed. One year Kitty volunteered to work weekends with Mrs. Jenkins and the Headmaster's office to computerize old files and records. Her mother was trying to make partner now and was working very hard so it didn't matter much to Kitty if she went home or not. She was spending one weekend scanning records and then typing the information into a database, when she stopped dead.

Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.

It was like finding the tooth fairy was real. OMG. What to do? Mrs. Jenkins was out of sight, she quickly slid the file into her backpack and zipped it up. She wasn't keeping it, but she couldn't just scan his information and set it to the side. She had to spend time with him. Learn everything she could about the boy who tattooed his words into the very buildings she sat in.

Back in her room, when she was sure all was quiet she pulled the file out and held it reverently. She was scared to open it. Maybe he was the bully or perhaps he faded from the pain into a shadow of what he was.

When she finally opened the file the first thing she saw was his face on the inside cover, his graduation picture she presumed, but he didn't wear the traditional cap and gown but stood there in jeans and a t-shirt, his hair dyed platinum, neatly clipped yet still somehow defiant, standing straight, his arms folded.

He was handsome, she couldn't call him cute, because that implied a softness, and there was no softness in him, teenager though he was. She took that back, there was some softness, but only about the mouth. But what really pulled her in were his eyes. She didn't know how to describe it to herself at first, that piercing look. It wasn't the look of a crazy person, but what was it? A hawk, that's what she saw. His eyes could see things that others couldn't. It was like he could see her, right then, right there, from where he was so many years ago.

"Sherlock Holmes, where are you now?" She asked the picture.

The rest of his file was as mesmerizing as his picture had been. His father had insisted he stay at the school, even though by mid-levels they were rapidly running out of things to teach him, so they decided to split his time between there and university. Early to late morning were spent at the boarding school, by 11:00 he was on his way to advanced chemistry, anatomy, botany, forensics and a list of other classes that were dizzying to contemplate.

A person this smart, why hadn't she heard of him? He had to be a doctor, maybe even a surgeon. Maybe he was in research? The world must be full of his discoveries by now. She had to know, and one day, she was going to meet him.

Pulling her laptop and scanner out she went to work. Kitty was developing skillsets of her own, among which were her very good computing skills. She kept a private network with a high level of encryption. She also partitioned her hard drive, this is where her most sensitive information went. Sherlock Holmes was always going to be most sensitive information.

III

Sherlock sat in a rich leather club chair staring at a fire, waiting to be called-in, yet again, for how he handled his assignment. What was the point of being in a clandestine organization if you couldn't do something clandestine? Russian spies had hacked servers in a bio-tech company in Manchester that contracted with the RAF with the help of an inside man. He had correctly traced the rest of the group to Minsk in Belarus, infiltrated the group, wiped the data and made it look like it was an inside job, which effectively had each one going after the other. What was the problem with taking a little time to package the bundle and send them to London bow-tied? Russia wasn't going to do anything to them and he had as good as had them taxing down the runway when his handler, sniveling coward that he was, pulled the end of his operation. Good job he decided to make sure he washed up drowned with the help of a body he took from a morgue before he started the task, otherwise they would have known it was him.

He needed work. He needed to problems. This constantly being pulled up short was excruciating. What else was there to focus on? What else was there to do? At times his thoughts drove to the edge of—he didn't even want to think the word. He didn't want to think.

He had started out wanting to fix a situation. He wanted to give something back to someone. But—it no longer seemed needed. So there was no turning back. He had tried so hard to do things right, the right the world seemed to need him to do, slow and cumbersome as it was, inefficient and inept as it usually was. He didn't know where things had gone so wrong. When his mind got on this point, what had gone wrong, the tornado that were his thoughts was capable of making him do things. That's how he'd gotten censured during his last assignment, but what that man had done to his own brother was beyond endurance. How could he have left his brother to die?

He had to stop this. He wished they call him in, hang him by his thumbs and beat him already. Or put him on another job, whatever. Sherlock stood and kicked at the dying flame, bent down and actually reached in and moved wood to let the air get in before adding fresh pieces. He stood to return to his seat to find a man staring at him.

"You can go in now Mr. Holmes."

"Finally." Was his only response and he headed for his boss' office.

He went into the richly fabric-ed office to see Sir Walter in the now familiar setting. He was a good man, as far as any spook could be called good. And when he wasn't wound up he could admit to himself that he had kept the wolves at bay more than once in his behalf.

"Okay, out with it. What do I have to do? Crawl on my hands and knees to the queen? Babysit for the Prime Minister? What?"

Sir Walter stared at him quietly. Not the least disturbed by Sherlock's outburst. He had certain—regrets where he was concerned. He was every bit the man-child that Mycroft had described to him, but he was still more beyond that. He had empathy, something that many agents anywhere lacked. They could speak of duty, responsibility, but not true concern. He could pretend, for the sake of a case or a job, but he could not be fake. He still saw evil, where others only saw shades of grey. It's what made him so good, and so reckless. What people, and even Sherlock himself, saw as lack of consideration for others appeared to be his way of blocking out the sensory overload he was constantly under. If he did not have a focus outside of the work, a place to use his empathy, his way of blocking the outside, he would soon be lost to oblivion again.

"Neither. In fact, you may be up for knighthood. Queen and Country were very impressed."

Sherlock was pulled up short with this answer, but he wasn't impressed either. So, why was he made to wait so long?

"I don't understand. Then why am I here?"

"To introduce you to someone. Sherlock Holmes, say hello to Catherine Winter. Kitty as she's usually called. Catherine Winter—this is Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock turned his head to focus on the young woman sitting quietly in the chair at the far side of the room. He hadn't noticed her, but when he did something about her made him unfurled the scowl a fraction. The young woman stood up and walked over to him, extending her hand. She didn't smile, but surprisingly, she wasn't afraid of him either. He turned back to his boss.

"What is this?" he asked, ignoring her hand.

"She is to be your new handler."

When he turned back to her, she had already pulled her hand away and held it behind her back. She was still undisturbed, "Mr. Holmes," she said with a slight nod. His eyes traveled her clinically, measuring as though he had tape and scales.

"What happened to St. John?"

"St. John was moved to a different assignment." Leaped was the better description, he thought.

Sherlock turned and looked at the dark haired girl again, observed her closely. The intelligence in her eyes, her physical grace that he knew she possessed even as she stood still, and her courage. She stood and faced him with candor and kindness. There were not many who could do that and he turned back to his boss and cocked his head her direction, "Do you think I don't know what you're trying to do?"

"We didn't recruit her for your sake," was his steady reply, "if that's what you're implying. Ms. Winter is not here to hold your hand. She is, on the other hand, one of the finest of our newer assets. And though she is young, she is well along in her career. She's quite an agent in her own right. She, I think, will be able to keep up with you, and furthermore, give you a run for your money at times." His boss smiled, because he genuinely believed this, "And you may be one of the few people here to actually be able to teach her anything. I believe this will be one of my finest matches. I shall wait to see if I'm correct."

Such high praise. Sherlock turned to look at the young woman again, because she was a young woman. "What rates such commendation?"

"Masters in Computer Sciences. Masters in Political Sciences. Bachelors in Criminal Justice. Well-rounded education in health and medical related areas. Fluent or have a good working knowledge in a handful of languages. Black belt in marital arts.

"A regular Mrs. Peel. So, what are your languages?"

Arabic, Pashto, Farsi, Hebrew, pretty good Yiddish, German and Russian. My Italian, French and Spanish are all fairly good. I have a working knowledge of Navajo."

Sherlock just gave her a surprised look.

"I've always admired the code talkers of World War II."

"And when did you start this fantastical journey, in the nursery?"

At last she smiled and turned her head away, it was quite genuine, not meant to appease, "I don't own a TV."

"Mmm," was Sherlock reply. He looked back at Sir Walter, "So are you telling me not to muck this up?"

"I'm saying that if you do "muck this up" you will be the poorer for it."

"Ms. Winter, please to make your acquaintance," Sherlock finally said and offered her his hand.

She shook his hand and smiled as though there had been no interrogation about her or her qualifications, "Please to meet you Mr. Holmes. I do have one question if you don't mind?"

Sherlock gave a quick nod.

"Who is Mrs. Peel?"

IV

Sherlock came out of 221b and before he put his whistle to his lips a cab pulled up in front of him. He got in and despite himself smiled at the back of the head as it quickly pulled out and into traffic.

"I take it we have an impromptu briefing to attend?"

"Something to that effect."

"I thought our last assignment turned out rather well."

"I did too. We put the blackmailer in jail and recollected all the flash drives. I don't know what there could have been to complain about?"

"Perhaps it has something to do with making that politician think we would provide his wife, and his lover, with video of his exploits if he didn't give us the full list of his dubious helpers and take himself out of the running for the next election." He saw Kitty smiling in the mirror at him, "Really, how many times can we go cleaning up behind the man? By the way, thank you for the last minute assist."

Kitty had played the part of his bird, dim but beautiful, while he played the part of the an East European "facilitator," brokering a deal for some blackmailers who had managed to catch a politician at some very bad behavior and got him to give up a list of names of people who were secretly working with MI-6. Many people could have died. The deal had gone well and they were ready to close when they realized they were being ambushed. Sherlock used his computer to bring down the man in front of him. The much larger man behind him shoved Kitty to the ground and proceeded to lock onto Sherlock's neck.

Try as he might Sherlock was unable to get the large man off of him. That's when he saw this dark blur fly past his head. Kitty had used the side of the table to launch herself into the air like a high jumper, fasten her legs around his neck and spun him around to the ground. Sherlock slid to the floor and across the room, big man fell to the floor, and knocked himself cold. Kitty pushed him off, and padded to Sherlock barefoot to make sure he was okay, while he took out his mobile and called the ground troops to clear the wreckage. She listened while he spoke then continued across the room to get her shoes and bag.

When she walked back men had come in to collect the blackmailers and the wreckage. She put her hand on Sherlock's shoulder as she put her shoes back on. He looked down at her, she smiled up at him. She didn't always smile, but she always gave a genuine one to him.

It had not started out quite this way. From the beginning Sherlock did indeed try hard not to muck up this new association, however, Kitty was yet a new thing in his catalogue of human connection. She truly seemed to soak in every word he said, she asked questions, she summarized the content, but never gave feedback. Her eyes seemed to suggest she was happy in his company. Eager to work and to learn, but feelings stayed in the eyes. Admittedly, he was frustrated by it. Watson would have been amazed or confused or even annoyed by his postulating. Kitty accepted it as part of his nature and moved on.

He began training her in deduction. She was not without her skills already and when he gave her the smallest lead she would infer 2 and 3 steps and sometimes more with that bit of help. If he gave the slightest commendation, she would smile in genuine happiness. In field work she seemed to anticipate his needs and worked hard to provide for them. With a phone and computer ever by her side she seemed to have the whole world on speed dial, her contacts were vast. Twice she came in like the cavalry and provided necessary aide.

After a couple of months the maddening silence drove him to do what he hadn't expected to do—try to reach her. He wondered, for the first time, if this is what it must have been like for people to try and reach him. Watson touching his shoulder, Gregson leaning in and soften his tone of voice, Bell asking a question and waiting patiently for his answer. He analyzed these methods and others to try to bring her into the light. The obvious and quickest route was to become the student. He broached the subject while they studied files for their next assignment.

"Kitty, how long have you taken martial art training?"

"Since I was child."

"I think perhaps it's time that you became a teacher. I'd like to learn from a proficient."

A mild and quick look of horror passed over her face before she controlled it, she looked away and back several times. "Are you worried I won't be there to help you in case of an emergency?"

"No. I'd—like-to be able to return the favor."

She smiled but didn't say anything except "be right back," She disappeared and returned 5 minutes later with a file. She placed it in front of Sherlock.

"As your handler, I've read your file. I think it's only fair you read mine."

So much for subtlety, "I didn't ask to read this."

"No, but you'll be able to ask the right questions if you do read it." She sat down, opened up a bottle of water and continued, "I've read your file so I know to ask about your life is not exactly a welcomed thing. I don't go where I'm not wanted. I don't believe in sharing with someone who doesn't wish to share back. If what you read in the file is sufficient for you, then so be it. If you're truly interested in knowing me we'll take it from there."

Sherlock stared at the file and then her. He nodded twice. Next, he set the file carefully to the side. But he read that file later. Mean diet. Though he did see she had gone to his boarding school and started university while still in school. From there her world had gone its own way. MI-6 had approached her as she was finishing up her masters in Computer Science and studying French and Spanish. She hadn't made 20. They encouraged her education in different directions, all the while using her considerable computer skills to help in the increasing work of computer espionage. Finding and tracing government-targeted malware, spyware and the like back to its source, most of the time, but her language skills bent made her useful for handler work.

Her personal life, unlike his, was barely addressed. He noticed her date of birth, she looked young for her age. Her parents were divorced. Her mother was partner in a firm and remarried. Her father was twice divorced. There were 2 half-brothers somewhere in Spain.

The next day when he went to work his first words to Kitty were, "Do you know your brothers?"

She was at her desk, files and papers in front of her. She gave a rueful smile: "Did you know yours?"

It broke the ice. It was good to speak to another person again about more than work. Joan had taken him from the world of solitude, misanthropy; he couldn't go back to only having associates. Sherlock found himself speaking of things, even Irene (Moriarty was her criminal name, and his heart wouldn't allow him to speak of her place in his life as that) more freely than he thought he ever would. He found out that Kitty hated that boarding school every bit as much as he did, which is why she took up self-dense in the first place and had learned Spanish and French because of where her father moved after the first divorce, and then the second.

When she could stand it no longer she finally asked, "It was—well—known that you and your brother weren't on the best of terms, but you were working together—before the end. Did you—get a chance—you know—to sort things out?"

She was really watching his body for the answer. The hero that she had dreamed of had turned out to be very human, and it made her all the more in awe of him. To be that boy, to become this man, with so few people on his side to help him along made her very protective of him. His constant kinetic energy was a happy sign for her. The movement of his fingers, the way he rolled on his toes, his gestures, even the way his head would move all told her he was within normal limits.

Spastic movement spoke to frustration. Sometimes, if it was in her power, she would help him, take on the irksome thing herself. More often she used questions, each one chipping at the anger, annoyance, distress or irritation-making him direct it. Making him answer the questions in a way rebooted him, took him out a dangerous loop. At first Sherlock didn't appreciate her efforts, but quickly caught on. He would turn to her when the loop started now. Of course, he never acknowledged it, it seemed obvious that she would do it, make things better.

The body language that scared her was the silence. If he was working—well and good, but when he wasn't it was a descent she didn't like to see. There is no pain like the pain that will not show, that cannot be allowed to. She had only seen this pain a few of times—she was hoping this was not one of them.

His head jerk slightly, as though the words hurt. Kitty went to take back the question but he stopped her, "No. It's okay. I—we—began to see some improvements before—before the fire."

"Before his murder," Kitty said quietly.

"Yes, yes," said with jerky nods.

Kitty had seen Mycroft on occasion. He ran in different circles, higher ones, and he only came through rarely. His last name had, of course, immediately caught her notice, but she did not know that this was his brother. She wouldn't have believed it if she had of known. Something about him did not sit well with her, as she heard in a movie one time, "he had an ill-favored look" about him, though she seemed to be in the minority on that thought. Sherlock movements did not continue to jerk and he did not fall silent so she dared to continue.

"Is that why you came to MI-6? Do you want to capture the people responsible for his death?"

Her perception sometimes shook him, which his sharp look indicated.

"I'm not asking to spy on you—no one asked me to get in your mind. I ask because I want to know if I can be of help to you."

Still he said nothing. He was falling silent. Still she pushed. This would be the only time she could do this.

"Excuse me for stepping into this area. It's just that you—you had a life, a good one as far as I can tell in New York. There is not a lot there but everything suggests that you had good work—friends—a girlfriend who worked with you—"

"She was not my girlfriend." He looked at her directly when he said the words, but then turned away.

"But she was a close friend, yes? My friends have gotten me through dark times. I feel—I believe—that there must have been something very important to make you leave that. I would—if you wanted—help you do what you need to do to get back to that life."

Sherlock seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but the words would not be spoken. Instead, his eyes softened and a barely there smile came to his mouth. "Thank you. Thank you, but no, I will not be hunting the men responsible for my brother's death. New York was a very good place for me to heal, but that time is behind me now."

"Your friends, are your friends behind you?"

"My friends, we contact each other occasionally." His hand twiddled on the table over the papers.

"Even Joan?" She asked about her specifically because she did not believe her to be 'just a friend' for a moment.

This time he went into silence. A silence she had never seen before. It was like she stepped into a sacred place and he was trying to keep himself from what his mind was telling him to do. But then he began to read her expression. Astonishment and a little fear was in her eyes, and she saw him immediately pull away from his dark thoughts. She saw him re-orient his thinking before he spoke.

"Watson did something for me that I'll never be able to repay. She brought me back my life and my ability to work. She became interested in my work and I began to train her—and we worked well together. However, life is not static, it moves and it was time for each of us to move on. Still, she was just my friend, whether you believe it or not." His movements came back, though spastic, which gave her courage to speak.

"I don't believe that anyone is just your friend. I don't think you throw that word around lightly and I don't think anyone who was your friend would lightly forego it."

Immediately dark thoughts were completely gone and the softness in his eyes returned. The words, her face, it had been a long time since he knew, really knew that someone was on his side. She had her say and looked to the work in front of her. Who could have asked those questions better? She saw things, things that weren't in his file and she offered her help to get him back to, what she had astutely realized, had been the most important part of his life.

"I'm—I'm happy that we're working together Kitty. You have made the transition to my life back here-good. I hope that we will work together a very long time."

And that was it. She smiled and nodded and they planned their strategy. But everything changed. She was becoming his 'person' the one whom he'd turn to in no matter the work. It was only a couple of days after this meeting that Kitty's phone rung at 6:00 am sharp.

"Ello?" came her blurry reply.

"Good you're up. Are you doing anything?"

"Huh? Is this Sherlock?" Kitty shook her head to clear the sleep, "Is something wrong?"

"What? No, but I have a briefing with Sir Walter at 7:30 and I wanted you to pick me up."

"Briefing? Why we do we need to be at a briefing?" Kitty was now struggling to sit up.

"Well, not you—me. I have to be to there and I want you to be there." He said this while bouncing on his toes.

"Is Sir Walter going to want me there? Would he let me?"

The thought really hadn't occurred to Sherlock. He just wanted her set of ears at the briefing so he wouldn't have to explain it to her later. Since he was going to tell her everything anyway, the idea that she wouldn't be allowed to come in the first place seemed ridiculous. "Of course he will. I want you there. Pick me up by 7?"

"Okay. Sure. 7. I'll be there." The phone went dead in her hand. As tired as she was, and as offended at being woken up as she should be, she still smiled. Sherlock wanted her there. What this meant for her rest she couldn't say, but Sherlock wanted her there and it was worth the loss of sleep.

V

After that it was known, any briefing that he was required to attend—Kitty was attending also. Any clearance he had access to might as well include her, because he never failed to include her. And she was no hanger on, her political knowledge of not just the leaders but the back players, the deal makers, along with her clear deductive reasoning that Sherlock was honing to a razor's edge, kept being of use. Sir Walter would often smile to himself after they would leave him. He began to forgive himself for letting Sherrington use him in his evil schemes. He had gotten off well by having Le Milieu catch up to him first.

But another thing was happening. Since their first real conversation, Kitty had a thorn in her mind that would not be removed. The information that she had on Sherlock was incomplete. There was more to New York than she knew. She tried to let it alone, but the thought would not go, and she had the belief that it has something to do with Mycroft's death—otherwise, why would Sherlock leave immediately after it happened? The look on Sherlock's face at the mention of Joan's name was not the look of a lost friendship, not even that of a mere girlfriend. It was a look of a barely healing scar, still near raw, which you protect the second anything gets near it.

The only other person who received similar honor was Irene Adler.

What she knew of Sherlock's relationship with Irene was that it nearly destroyed him. What she saw of his relationship with Joan was that it nearly destroyed his spirit. The couple of times that Joan's name came up he did not do well afterwards, lost in a silence that made her stomach tighten in worry. But it was when Sir Walter brought her name up as a possible person to contact to help with information that Kitty saw how painful it still was.

Their target was frequenting New York, a skittish man, who saw enemies everywhere. Sir Walter mused that maybe Sherlock's former partner could do a quick surveillance of the area the man was last known to frequent. Sherlock rejected the idea immediately.

"But she knows the area, and she's American. No accents to fake. Nothing about her would put up a red flag. I believe that—"

"No!" And in his attempt to end the conversation his hand went out, a spastic gesture to sweep it away. A paperweight, hand-blown, that looked as though it held a galaxy went flying. Just as quickly Kitty moved over and caught it before it hit the floor.

Sherlock had not done anything like that in months. It took them all by surprise, especially Sherlock. "I am sorry. I will contact Joan Watson if you wish, but I — our working relationship did not end as well as I would have liked. It could slow the investigation."

Sir Walter accepted his apology and explanation and without being dismissed Sherlock stood and left his office. Kitty got up and followed him to a conference room further along the hall where he stood looking out of a window. She stood next to him and waited in silence. Sherlock glanced at her, and returned to looking out of the window.

"I don't know where that came from. I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"I don't know why I did it. Well, I guess I do, but—"

"No. Why are you sorry?"

"Pardon—Pardon me?"

Are you sorry for the outburst or sorry for the things that happened that caused it?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Kitty didn't force one. She reached up and touched his arm and walked away. But after that—she had to know the entire story.

At first, she thought of doing it the old-fashioned way—by hacking. Sis Walter wasn't a man of the 21st century, but he wasn't an idiot either. The more she thought about it, the more she knew she needed to do something better. She went back to Sir Walter's office:

"Is Sherlock returning?"

"He'll be back in a couple of minutes." She sat and thought for a moment, then came out plainly: "I need to see Mycroft Holmes' file."

"Excuse me?"

"I need to see Mycroft Holmes' file. Something happened between him, Joan and Sherlock in New York and I need to understand it. "

"Why?"

"Because he is brilliant, but he is not whole and I am charged with assisting his investigations and keeping him safe. What happened to him at the end of his time in New York gives an added layer of unpredictably to his actions and therefore hampers my ability to do my job."

"No one is whole Miss Winter. Besides, how do you know what layers of unpredictability New York adds to his actions?"

"We, Sir Walter, have cracks, fissures; we do not have the Grand Canyon running through our souls. He has worked hard to build bridges—and has had them destroyed more than once. And as to how do I know how this affects is actions—this is not the first time that the topic has come up—I am the one who deals with the aftermath."

"Why haven't you said anything about this before?"

She didn't answer at first. She looked at that galaxy paperweight that sat on his desk for some moments then she looked back up. Kitty, when the need arose, had this brilliant ability to find the right words.

"Better to work with a partial diamond than a whole lump of coal." Sherlock came back in the office almost as soon as she finished speaking.

An envelope with the file was under her door when she got home.

That night went fast and slow. Everything was making so much more sense now, but still there were holes. Files CQ287 and F225-11 held some critical information. She knew from the code F225-11 was an addendum to Sherlock's main file, kept separately, CQ287 began to take shape, but she couldn't be sure. The morning couldn't come soon enough to find this out.

In the meantime, Kitty learned that Mycroft was every bit the primeval slime she thought him to be. There were notes about his return to MI-6 as a kind of inducement to leave Sherlock Holmes out of terrorist crimes committed by a Domo Han. But background notes in his file spoke to a possible reason that he would succumb to such a deal.

In his uni days Mycroft had been a minor drug dealer, a rich bad boy with too much money and too much time to waste, a cache that got him invited the wildest parties and the woman who would do anything to get into them. Sherlock started to university a year after he started and within two years had already finished one degree. Mycroft, although brilliant himself, barely passed his classes, though he would ace every exam. His only interest was enjoying freedom from boarding school and his father. Sherlock did not fit into that plan. Occasionally people would learn of their connection—especially professors.

After such embarrassments Mycroft, to return the favor, was known to bring Sherlock to his parties and ply him with alcohol or other things. Sherlock at first didn't realize what he was doing and enjoyed the attention, only to find out later how cruel he actually was. All association broke off after that, but the damage had been done. Substance abuse was now a part of his life, one day to almost destroy it.

Then there was the matter of "Operation Rouge." Every clinical word of the operation made her flesh crawl. The deliberate destruction of a person's life planned and executed. Files CQ287 and F225-11 were referenced throughout.

Kitty woke up to her phone ringing. Sherlock wanted to know where she was, she'd usually call by that time. When he found out she had overslept (though oversleeping for him was 15 minutes before the alarm goes off), he decided to give her a break. He would have his cab swing by and pick her up on the way to work.

When he arrived Kitty was standing there texting a message. She hit send just before she got into the car.

"Who were you texting?"

"A friend of mine. I'm hoping she'll be able to meet me soon. I need to see her."

The text had been to Corina, Sir. Walter's Assistant. It read: "CQ287 and F225-11 are necessary. Don't fail me now."

VI

The morning that Kitty picked up Sherlock up in the cab they did not go to Headquarters. He knew they wouldn't the second he saw the cab pull up.

"Why doesn't Sir Walter want to have this discussion at HQ?"

"I don't know. I was told to drive the cab to pick you up, my car is being driven to work and we're supposed to catch the express train, we'll be picked up there. Tickets will be waiting for us at the information counter."

"It must be more important than we realize if Sir Walter wants to meet us at his country estate."

Kitty didn't doubt he was correct.

Kitty sat at the table in silence. She had never used the word "gobsmacked" to describe how she was feeling, but it was the only appropriate word now.

"Wha—wha-What?!"

With that Sherlock had gotten up and was moving around the room. His hands were ticking and his movements were spastic. Kitty felt every bit as distressed.

Sir Walter had started with the hardest blow.

"Sherlock, please sit down. I don't make this request lightly. You are the only one for the job."

Both Kitty and Sherlock felt the trap coming as they entered the beautiful estate. They were shown to "the breakfast room" and immediately Kitty smelled what had to be the best Earl Grey tea she had ever smelled in her life filling the room along with coffee and breakfast. Scrambled eggs were in one container and there was toast and sausage and fruit. The tea had been freshly prepared and there was milk and sugar sitting nearby.

Sherlock took one look at the sideboard and moved around the room to the windows and began to pace. Kitty wished she could ignore it, but they hadn't gotten leave to go home until late last night and she hadn't eaten since well before that and she had been woken early with the change of schedule.

The eggs and toast were delicious, the tea was divine, but she had this feeling she might have been eating her last meal.

In a way, she wasn't far wrong.

Sherlock pinched at the spot between his eyes and took a deep breath then returned to his chair.

"Okay. Explain it to me."

"First, let me make clear to you that this is not a sanction, your work with us has been extraordinary. However, our dear politician friend has given us a convenient way to make a change that we have been wanting to do for some time."

"We have reason to believe that Sherrington was not working alone as a mole when he murdered your brother and got himself killed—"

Sherlock heard Mycroft's voice in the back of his mind "He said there was a letter that in the event of his death or arrest, it would be sent to certain parties—"

"— and this person has gone well underground since you've joined the home office, as it were. However certain anomalies have persisted. Some of them have to do with Mycroft. We must flush this person or persons out. This will help give the impression that pressure has been let up—"

"And put us where Mycroft's latest work was being done and you feel must be at the heart of it, New York." Sherlock finished.

Sir Walter let out a sigh, "We'll be able to work this from both ends."

"But why do we have to leave today?" Kitty looked like she was being asked to jump off the edge of a cliff.

"Gurson has complained about how he has been treated during his investigation, the arrogant git. He has just enough consequence that reprisals would not be surprising. A suspension, a change of venue, all of that would seem in line and having you go immediately will have an impact that will not be missed." Sir Walter smiled, "It will not get him back on the ballot however."

"So why are you telling us here?" Kitty asked, unable to see any humor in the situation.

"These walls may be old but the security in them is not. We will do the Gurson debriefing, I'll brief you on New York and then you'll be able to go. Sherlock, I've spoken to your father, the brownstone is still your home. Miss Winter, before you leave we will stop at your homes, pack any immediate concerns and afterwards we will send anything you need from here to New York. Your apartment will be looked after while you're gone. Sherlock, is it reasonable to assume that Miss Winter can stay with you until she makes other arrangements?"

Both Kitty and Sherlock understood the impact of those words and she didn't dare look at him, but he didn't wait or rush the words. He looked at her until she looked back and said deliberately, "Yes, I want her to stay with me."

That was it. She had thrown in her lot with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock hated to fly, but there was no choice this time. He also hated small planes, so personal jets were out of the question. In the end the agency spent a small fortune to transport them on a very special first class from London to New York. The rumor was given that it was at the personal request of Sherlock's father that they did so. This allowed Sherlock to get up and move as often as he needed to. She ate shrimp cocktail, sipped ginger ale, fully reclined her chair and read until sleep claimed her. She had heard that there were planes that didn't shove people in like they were cattle, but this was the first time she had ever experienced it.

When she woke it was to a darkened cabin and an India ink view. She closed the window shade. It was quiet behind her. She was used to Sherlock's movements—big and small, slight snatches of personal conversation, clearing of his throat, etc., they told her he was there and doing fine and without them she looked behind her to see if he had gotten up and was wandering the cabin again. She was completely surprised to see that he was asleep. He had raised the legs of his chair and laced his fingers and laid them across his stomach. He looked like he was waiting for something and simply closed his eyes. Then she saw he wore earphones. It was to a mini-mp3 she had purchased for him. It was playing probably the only thing he had on it—a recording of buzzing bees that she had found and downloaded for him.

A flight attendant came by and asked her if she needed anything. She shook her head. The attendant looked at the contentment on the girl's face and thought that though there were an odd looking sort of couple—they fit.

People couldn't know the real state of things. Kitty knew lovers came and went. How many could say they were a witness to history? She had no doubt that someday the world would read of his adventures, his exploits and she wanted to be able to say "I was there." She wanted to be the one who recorded the events and learned from him. She wanted to be a helper and, when needed, a protector. She thought about all the files she had read. His determination had saved her from the beginning. She made efforts she wouldn't have made, got into trouble she wouldn't have gotten into, made friends instead of withdrawing from the world. Of course, he still didn't know any of this. She looked down at his at his blue with green polka dots socks with bright pink toes and smiled, then she rolled over and went back to sleep.

VII

These early days in New York were nothing like she thought they would be.

Since the cover was that Sherlock was temporarily suspended from MI-6 over the handling of a prominent politician, it was felt that he should reach out to Tommy Gregson to resume work with the NYPD. Well that went pear-shaped immediately, starting with Joan coming into the brownstone unexpectedly. Then there was the matter of Joan's first meeting with her. Everyone's feelings were tried and tender and the case could have buckled under weight of the tension.

Next there was the matter of their true assignment, hampered by their police work, which was more than she thought they'd get, but which Sherlock seemed to relish.

And then there was the question of where could they find a lead? With an open morning they visited the site where Diogenes used to be. It had been demolished and was bare ground with a sign that said 'sold.' Sherlock walked onto the bare ground anyway, and she followed. She watched him move into silence, a combination of work and emotion, she moved away and knelt down to sniff at a handful of dirt where charring still showed along the concrete—was there an aberrant chemical she could detect? But before she could sniff more than twice Sherlock was leaving the field.

"There is nothing to be found here."

She stood and watched him walk away. When she didn't follow he turned around and looked.

"What are you waiting for?"

Only then did she catch up with him, walking beside him without comment. Her silence made him uneasy.

"What are thinking?"

"Where did your brother live and when was it built?"

There were times when Sherlock didn't know what to make of this handler/asset/protégé of his. Women's hearts were insoluble puzzles—as he well knew. Yet he kept finding himself in the company of brilliant women who seemed intent on weaving themselves into his psyche. But he was a person of who could not denounce intelligence put to use. Kitty, having lived in many apartments remembered something. It's not just the apartments, there are also the storage rooms, usually in the basement of older apartments. People often left things behind in their storage rooms when they moved away. And people who cleared out apartments often forgot them too.

"Never mind people rarely pay attention to the numbers on the door—if there are numbers. They just get whichever one they fancy."

They entered through the service entrance and made their way down the back stairs, shining a light through the slits of each locked area they passed. Mycroft hadn't been long enough in New York for anything he may have stored to be old and forgotten.

"Here," was all Sherlock said. Mycroft's handwriting on the boxes, just like his fingerprints, were well known to him. He opened the lock. Only 10 boxes. Old cooking books, old CDs and DVDs, a box of clothes that he had before leukemia, old electronics, a few old books, plans for the NY Diogenes restaurant, along with samples. Kitty found a phone, and took the CD and DVDs. Sherlock took the plans for Diogenes.

As the came out of the apartment into the alley both of their phones began to ring, NYPD had tried contacting Kitty when Sherlock's phone went unanswered. There had been a murder in a hotel. The man had turned state's evidence and had gone into witness protection, but had been found. Gregson wanted him to come to the scene. That had been 15 minutes ago.

"Captain, sorry I didn't get back to you straight away, Ms. Winter and I will be there as soon as we can."

"Good, good. Watson came right away, but I could still use you. There is another room, the circumstances of the people leaving are suspicious. We think they may have had a hand in the murder. We're keeping it taped off, if you could look over that room we'd appreciate it."

"Yes, of course, we'll be there shortly."

Kitty saw him give the barest of reactions to some information. She didn't hear everything said, but the word 'Watson' came through clearly.

All through their first case with the NYPD Kitty endured watching Watson's behavior towards Sherlock. She hadn't told Sherlock what she had learned. It seemed irrelevant. He was in England, Watson was in America. It was a story from the past. Then, within a single day they'd changed continents. Now they were working for two governments and trying to understand their new living arrangements. It never seemed to be the right time to sit him down with explosive information.

She didn't want to hurt him.

Now every eye-roll, every slighting comment, every put upon gesture from Joan Watson renewed her anger. Didn't she run away when the pain of a mistake got too much for her? And what was worse, Sherlock accepted it all. It took everything she had to behave as she knew she should, but Joan saw the heat in her eyes on a couple of occasions. Kitty wasn't unhappy that she had seen her emotions but then she would control her features and pour her feelings into helping Sherlock at whatever he had been assigned to do. Funny, the anger seemed to fuel her deductive abilities.

They dropped off the things they collected at the brownstone and went straight to the hotel. No cameras in the halls but it did have key card door openers. Mr. Blessington was done to death just inside his doorway, found because his door hadn't completely closed. His body lay at awkward angles on the floor. He was a medical sales rep and traveled frequently, often staying in a small hotel off the highway. Before this he had been an accountant that found himself working for a man who cleaned money for some bad people and he worked inside to get the evidence.

Joan had done a cursory look in the second room, but she was currently in the room where the crime had been committed. They passed that room on the way to theirs. Sherlock looked in and peered around. Joan had been kneeling taking a picture. She looked up, saw Sherlock and Kitty and returned to her picture. He had been expecting to be acknowledged, Kitty could see that. She turned and immediately walked away. One more second and she would have done or said something rash, and there was more at stake than her feelings at this point. At least, that's what she told herself. Sherlock followed her and they went to their room.

The persons who had stayed there came late, paid cash for the room and disappeared in the middle of the night, which made them suspicious. When they got to the room they found a police officer roaming back and forth between the windows and the dresser.

"Stop!" Sherlock cried, standing just outside the door.

"Excuse me?"

"Stop moving this instant!"

"Who—?"

"Sherlock Holmes. I've been asked to take a look at this room, you're contaminating the scene."

"Oh, I remember hearing about you—"

"Officer—"

"Rigby."

"Officer Rigby. Take four steps towards me and then hop across the threshold."

Officer Rigby was getting annoyed, but was unsure of what to do or say because he had heard of Holmes.

"It's really quite simple, Officer Rigby." Ms. Winter began, "The carpet in the room is cut pile and not Berber. You are walking over potential footprints, which congregate more at the door. Four steps get you close enough to the door to make the hop over the threshold without additional contamination."

Marcus Bell appeared behind the two and nodded his approval of the plan and they all moved to the side to allow the officer to 'hop' out of the way. Marcus patted the policeman's arm as he stared at the other two as he moved to stand guard.

"Well, you've gone and done it."

"Pardon?" Sherlock replied.

"You went and found a female you. How are you doing Winter?"

Kitty liked Marcus and she smiled at him and his comment, "Doing well."

"Mmm," Sherlock replied then he leaped to where the officer last stood and turned around, crouched down and studied the threshold area carefully. Kitty stood waiting patiently with Marcus outside the door, putting on her gloves.

"In, out, no—not out—up to, back, then up again and then out. Then one final in and out." He stood and looked to Kitty, "Ms. Winter, the bathroom."

Kitty then went straight into the bathroom and Marcus followed Sherlock, careful to stay behind in wherever area he had already investigated. He looked to where Winter was in the bathroom. She got eye level with the sink and looked in the mirror. Picked up the towels that were on the floor, looked at and sniffed them, dropped them back to the floor then she bent over the tub. She came out of the bathroom.

"No," was all she said.

By this time Sherlock had put on his gloves and was inspecting the bed, where the people would have slept. He bent to exam the bed with sight and smell. He pulled his camera out to get a closer view then moved back to take pictures. He looked at the other bed and the floor then up.

"Kitty?"

She looked to the where Sherlock pointed, "Yes, I see. I'll ask," was her reply. She turned towards the door, "Officer Rigby?"

His head appeared, "Yes?"

"I'm sure I know the answer, but I have to ask. Did you sit anywhere in the room while you were waiting? It's very important."

"No. I did not."

"Thank you."

Sherlock snapped pictures of the beds and the floor. Kitty took pictures that mirrored what she had examined in the bathroom.

They finished at the same time and stared at each other satisfied. Marcus had been joking before with what he said. Now he believed it.

"I'll give you the honors," Sherlock told Kitty.

"The NYPD are correct. This was a staging area for the killers, man and a woman, probably because that would be less suspicious. The man sat on this bed, next to the bathroom, with his longer legs, he sits deeper into the bedspread and his larger shoe impressions are on the floor. The case with the supplies sat on the end of the bed. The bed she sat on was messed up for show. There are no dent marks or hair in the pillows or body impressions in the bed. Places where the feet would have tangled the sheets are missing. Also there are shoe marks, but no toe impressions."

"Toe impressions?" Marcus had to ask.

"You come in a room, one of the first things you do is take off your shoes. But there are no bare feet or socked feet anywhere in this room. Not even going into or out of the bathroom. Then there is the bathroom. There are wet towels on the floor, but no hint of anything on the towels, dirt, hair, make up, body odors, soap, nothing. Getting dressed is a messy affair, brushing your teeth, washing your face, shaving, putting product in your hair, things get on the mirror. There's nothing there."

"They could have cleaned off the mirror." Marcus countered.

Kitty smiled, "with a squeegee? There are no towel marks either. Lastly there is the shower liner. It's cloth but the bottom of it is dry. It should still be damp at the bottom."

Marcus was astounded. It was like listening to Sherlock and he smiled. As much as he liked Joan and as more appropriate she was in any—any—given situation, he was still happy to have Sherlock back. He was a one-off and brought intrigue and adventure into everything. He'd made him madder than anyone ever had and given him hope when no one else could. And now there was the added benefit of Ms. Winter, whom he was really beginning to like.

"Okay. We'll try to find the people who stayed here and have them checked and bring in CSU. Watson's already returned to the station. You can review the rest of the evidence there. Need a ride you two?"

They took the ride but had one more surprise as they went down the hallway. "One more thing detective," Sherlock said.

"Yes?"

"Someone who worked in this building helped."

VIII

Kitty sat in the back of the police car distracted, heading back to the hotel. She did the thing she had vowed not to do—let Joan Watson's behavior cause her to strike out. But she was so self-assured, so confident in her correctness. She was too busy to even say hello to Sherlock. To Sherlock! The man who had taught her the skills she was using.

Had she of paid attention before she entered the conference room, looked to see if Joan was in there, she could have prepared herself. But she had been thinking over the blow they had received.

At first things seemed good. Marcus told them the sheriff found the couple that had been staying in the room at a truck stop. They explained the husband had forgotten to deposit two checks for work he'd done and if they hadn't of left when they did the checks wouldn't have been picked up from the drop box in time for their bills to be covered. Neither Sherlock nor she believed that. And they were going to the Sheriff's station for questioning.

But then the bad news came just before they got to the station. Key cards record the times a door is opened. There was no record of that door being opened during the murder window. When they got to the station Sherlock went off into an old storage room to think things over and Kitty went to the conference room to give him some space and think through what she knew herself. Seeing Watson there looking over a picture they had already discarded immediately annoyed her, but she tried to ignore it. Surely she'd put that together in a minute or so—after all, Sherlock had taught her.

Kitty decided to review the notes she wrote then put herself in the role of the killers, making her actions fit the evidence. It seemed that she was near understanding something then she heard Watson's photograph—she was still looking at it! Something in her just snapped.

She'd told her everything. Everything. Now she had to find a time to tell Sherlock before Joan came calling. Unless…unless. She could feel Sherlock's eyes on her. She had to put this behind her for now somehow.

"You know we just came from the hotel. We could let the people who are still on duty look at this." Marcus words fortunately distracted Sherlock from the questions she knew he was getting ready to ask her.

"I need to do more than just look at the rooms. If what I think is correct, things will move quickly."

When they got the room Sherlock went to the actual crime scene, he opened and closed the door several times. He opened it again and stared at the carpet and then at the dresser. There was an ice bucket. He jumped over the taped outline and looked in it. There was water in it. He hopped back out the door.

This time he quickly turned around and went to where to where the ice machine was and turned around, the suspects' door was just down the way.

This time he opened their door and, using the outside of a glove, tapped along the strike plate. He gave an "ah" of satisfaction.

"Did they find the victim's key card?"

"Yes." Bell replied.

"How many did you find?" Sherlock got up and began walking down the hall.

"Just one."

Kitty gave a quick intake of breath, "I see what you're saying. When he checked in the room then?"

"Yes. This must have been planned quite some time.

"And the tape they put on their lock made it so they wouldn't need to use their card." Kitty answered.

Marcus was listening to this verbal volleying, and at this point he jumped in, "You're saying the victim was placed in that room?"

"Or at least put somewhere so he'd have to walk to the ice machine and therefore be monitored. His fondness for ice was well known."

"So why were you opening and closing the victim's door?"

Kitty answered, "The door jamb, the carpet, the door didn't close behind him, Marcus. Many hotels give two key cards to a room, but they only gave him one, and passed the second one to the suspects. But his door didn't close properly when he went in his room. It's why they didn't have to use their card and it didn't close completely behind him or them, but they may still have it!"

They were going down the stairs. Marcus called ahead to the desk to find out who had been working the night before.

"Robert, Robbie," the girl said.

"When did he get off of work?"

"About 5 am. He usually does the night shift."

"Pull his address, we'll be down there in a minute."

IX

It was late when they finally got back to the brownstone. Kitty wanted to stand under a hot shower and then go to sleep, but she'd barely taken two steps up the staircase when she heard:

"Kitty, a moment please."

She looked around and Sherlock had a new look. It was a serious, concerned look, and her heart sank. She watched him walk into the living room; then she followed him as he sat on the sofa.

"Are you going to make me ask?"

"I believe I have to."

Kitty was hoping to have this conversation in the morning after some rest, and maybe some food, and maybe a clue as to what to say. She well remembered Sherlock's look in the car, she was just hoping for a little more time.

"What happened between you and Watson today?"

Joan had not returned to the crime scene. In fact, when she heard about the progress they were making she bowed out from the rest of the investigation, saying they had things well in hand and she went home. That was not the Watson Sherlock knew. Kitty's over bright expression when she met him after his think at the station, and her deeply distracted brood in the car now made sense.

"First, tell me, have I been a good assistant to you?" She held her hands and looked at him intently, waiting.

Using everything he had learned, he spoke to her calmly, "You have never been my assistant. You were my handler, we are assets together, you have become my protégé and I consider you a friend."

He watched her take a breath. She nodded.

"I told her things. Things I should have said to you. But I didn't want to hurt you. When you—responded badly when Sir Walter wanted you to speak with Watson, I felt I had to understand why. And the point that joined you leaving America and the break in your relationship with Joan was your brother. I asked to see his file. I learned things that I knew would be painful to you."

She looked down at her hands. Took more breaths and continued in her slow place, "My purpose in reading the file was to be a better handler to you. It seemed cruel to give you more bad news about people you were never going to see again. I thought New York was in the past. And then we came here." Kitty looked off into the distance and shook her head, "Watching her—treat you like you were—something she had to put up with—"she shook her head again and looked at him, "I found it hard to ignore. You have done so much with so few people being there for you—you didn't deserve it."

Sherlock felt his heart starting to race, "What did the file say?"

"I did something bad."

"What do you mean? What did the file say?"

"I'll let you read them yourself."

"Them?"

Kitty had scanned the files and put them in the 'secret compartment' of her computer. She went up to her room came back down with a flash and watched Sherlock who had been pacing since she left the room.

"I know you will, but I would advise you not to read this."

"How can I not read it when everyone else already knows it?" Sherlock had replied gruffly.

Kitty looked down and away, "I apologize for not holding my tongue. You don't deserve to be hurt like this anymore. I wish this wasn't coming from me." And with that she handed him the flash then turned and went back upstairs.

But it took ages for Kitty to find anything that resembled sleep. And she was exhausted. She even snuck downstairs and peaked in at Sherlock at the computer. He looked transfixed. Was he breathing? She saw him blink. She returned upstairs.

She finally fell asleep, but woke up about 45 minutes later. It was barely pass 5 am. She couldn't stay in her room any longer, she crept downstairs and sat on the sofa. There he was still at the computer. She pulled her legs up and rested against the back and watched him until she fell asleep again.

When she woke up, there was a pillow under her head and a blanket over her and bright morning sun streaming in. She was still curled up tight underneath and she didn't unfurl herself right away. The second she moved everything would become real, and she didn't know what real was yet, and it scared her.

Finally she looked back towards where she last saw Sherlock. He wasn't there. She looked back down and concentrated on any possible noise in the house, but heard none. She was sure he wasn't in the brownstone at all. It worried her, but she had the pillow and the blanket. Consideration wasn't his strong suit, so when he did it, it meant something.

So slowly, slowly, she sat up and put her feet to the floor. When she stood she kept her blanket and went to where Sherlock had been sitting and sat there herself. The flash was gone and the computer was off, but she sat there anyway, bringing her feet up and covering herself completely with the blanket. She sat there for long minutes because she was at a loss as to what to do, but came to the conclusion this sitting here in limbo was of no use. If nothing else she was still an asset to MI-6, and there was every possibility that there was a second mole that helped in framing Mycroft Holmes who needed to be found.

Now with something like purpose she got up, with her blanket, and went down to the kitchen, took the bread, peanut butter, a clean towel and a knife and headed back towards her room. She rounded the first level and was halfway to the stairs for the second when she heard noises at both the back and front of the house.

Sherlock was coming in the back door with a box which he put on kitchen table. He smelled the faintest combination of scents that told him that Kitty was up and walking around with the blanket and had once again stolen the bread and peanut butter.

"Kitty! Kitty, where are you? Stay where you are! I need to speak to you!" He bounded up the stairs, rounded the corner and came to a complete stop.

Kitty was there in her blanket with the stolen peanut butter and bread, and there was Joan Watson.

X

Joan hadn't been quite correct since Kitty had sandbagged her. She called her boyfriend and told him she was working through some new information she had gotten at the station and that she wouldn't be able to meet him at dinner. Afterwards her first instinct was to go for a run.

She ran for a couple of miles around the reservoir, stopped, rested, and ran a couple of miles more. Then she just found a place to stop and think.

She didn't, she couldn't, know everything that went on behind the scenes of this drama. Who would have expected Mycroft to be part of MI-6? But her eyes fidgeted when she thought about how hard he had pursued her. How he made it look as though he had crossed oceans to gain her attention.

Then there was the contempt Sherlock had for him. The only thing that Sherlock would ever say was that he was lazy. She could never understand what lazy meant. But if what Kitty was saying was true, and she now thought it was, she could start to see what was it was about.

Everyone outside of her life with Sherlock were always asking her what about her "real" life? Don't you want a "real" life? What about "real" time? She saw that now. Sure she wanted the things every girl wants, but the question was—on whose timetable was she supposed to want it on? Was she worried that it was getting too late to start a family of her own? Was she worried that if she stayed any longer she wouldn't be able to distinguish her life from Sherlock's?

She'd be thoroughly honest when she told him he had a pull like gravity. And now that he was back she was experiencing it just as strongly as she had before. To see Kitty and him pursue a lead, or talk together about anything, and know she wasn't a part of it, tugged at her heart deeply. To watch her accept him to a degree she knew she never had made an impression on her about her relationship with him. Kitty, without catering to him, seemed to accept him as complete. Maybe because she had been his sober counselor first, she was always trying to fix him. Kitty decided to "learn" him instead, to the point she actually heard a couple of people call them "Kittylock." And it hurt.

At this moment, she could admit it—she was jealous.

Maybe that's why she had been so dismissive of them, a little too curt, a little too quick to offer a rebuttal. But what was she going to do now? Her foothold had been that Sherlock had been wrong to disappear like that, and she still felt that way, but—but, she had been the instrument used to unbalance him, to play with his mind. He had still needed her. The "Grand Experiment" was not yet complete; others had seen it, she had not.

Her boyfriend texted her saying he had been called in for a late shift and wasn't sure when he would be off-duty. She was glad. She hadn't figured out her own mind on recent events and didn't want to explain her current mood. Dinner was sparse and sleep was fitful at best.

The next morning she found herself going up the familiar staircase and ringing the bell.

Quicker than she expected the door opened and there was Kitty wrapped up in a blanket, a bag of bread and what looked like a towel hanging from one hand and something else in the other hand under the blankets. Kitty just stared at her and turned around and went back into the house, leaving Joan to follow.

She could hear noises in the background as she entered. She closed the glass door in time to hear footsteps on the landing and see Sherlock's surprised face.

Sherlock just stood there at first, then realized it was his place to speak.

"Watson. Please, have a seat."

Kitty went into the living room first, sitting at the near end of the sofa where she had woken from earlier, Joan sat at the other end and Sherlock sat in his customary chair, crossing his legs. Everyone watched while Kitty took her purloined food and sat it on the ottoman before curling her feet in the blankets on the sofa. Joan knew she had to say something.

"I guess you know why I'm here."

"Kitty told me that you two had a discussion."

Joan looked down. This conversation was so awkward anyway. Having Kitty be around it hear it made it more so.

Kitty read her expression and turned to Sherlock, "Would you prefer me to leave the room?"

"No Kitty I don't want you to leave. You need to be a part of this."

Those words touched Kitty and Joan in very different ways. Joan knew she had to simply pull her courage together and speak.

"I'm sorry that I was used as a tool against you. I would have never wittingly done anything so painful."

Sherlock nodded, "I know you wouldn't."

"But I also think you should have stayed. I think we could have gotten past it."

His mind could remember with great clarity where he was the moment he decided to go, "Maybe I should have stayed, but the fact is I could not. Forces—were leading me into a different path. In order for things not to deteriorate—well, in short, if I had of stayed I would not be the man you see in front of you now."

Joan knew what he meant and was hit all over again with how badly she had been used to manipulate Sherlock.

"How do you feel now?"

I have a closer feeling to whole than ever before. I have both of you to thank for that. You gave me structure Joan, a scaffold to rebuild myself on. Your belief in me allowed me to believe in myself."

Sherlock swung his foot a few seconds and looked at Kitty, "Returning to London provided me with answers. Answers I couldn't have gotten on my own. She believed in my story. All these years I knew there was something more. And she found it. There are things that aren't covered in any file that now make sense to me," Sherlock gave a lop-sided smile to Kitty then turned to Joan, "and with that," he continued, "I will fill you in on a story. Kitty and I are not here because we've been sanctioned by MI-6, we were sent here by them."

Kitty was clearly more surprised by this statement than Joan. Where was he going with this?

"Sherrington wasn't the only mole at MI-6. He was working with a partner, and I believe I can prove it."

Kitty stared, "You found proof?"

"You were right to get the discs."

"What discs?" Joan asked.

Sherlock went to speak and he looked at Kitty and the words died in his throat. She hadn't ate, she'd barely slept, in nearly 24 hours. He needed to look after her. The adrenaline for his case went away. It surprised even himself.

"Sherlock, what discs?"

He looked at Joan, but back to Kitty. He wanted to wait.

"This case will be here tomorrow."

Joan looked to Kitty. She looked ragged and she knew Sherlock had had that moment, that moment when his 'person' needed him to step up. And her heart ached. Kitty was his person, and she wasn't.

"Watson, it's been a long couple of days for us, and I need to check to see if what I know has, in fact, any basis in truth. But what I said before is true, MI-6 has sent us here to find a secondary mole working with Sherrington. I'm telling you because I think, in time, we'll need your help."

Sherlock stood and something in Joan sank. But she stood and walked with Sherlock to the door, and he followed her out onto the stoop, pulling the door carefully up behind them.

Again it was awkward.

"If we find the second mole, maybe it could lead us to the people who are most likely to want Mycroft. If we could do that, there's a chance he could come out of hiding."

"What?"

"You missed him."

"He used me."

"You didn't know that. Besides, I know the man. He's too lazy to hold a ruse. He most likely really cared."

Joan smiled, "I will help you in any way you need me to, but, I think that ship has sailed—and sank."

He looked away and grinned, before turning back, "How are you now, really, with us being here?"

"Confused. I feel like such a fool on so many levels—"

"You didn't know."

"And I didn't ask what I could have asked. Is there any way you wouldn't have been there that night, you, without a good reason? Just that question would have told me so much. I'll never forgive myself."

"I already have."

Her mouth opened in surprise.

"The game started long before you. That was just one more move in it." Then he looked back towards the door, "Kitty got me here you know. She makes me think. She can stand in the middle of my storm and make me think. She is my friend."

"I know how important your friends are to you."

"She sees something in me, Watson. Not just intelligence. I don't have the right words yet. She's like you in that respect, you saw something in me. So, I need to—I have to go in now. We'll talk to you later."

"Okay. Yes. See you later."

With that Sherlock went in and shut the door. She stared at it a second, standing outside of what Sherlock had once told her was her home. And she had willingly walked away, unlike what she was doing now. She'd been wrong.

She got to the bottom of the stairs and stared up at the brownstone for a few moments before she finally walked away.


End file.
